


fancy meetin' you here

by tsunderestorm



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 13:36:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9237383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsunderestorm/pseuds/tsunderestorm
Summary: "Are you getting slow in your old age, or stupid?”Genji falls back into McCree's life, unsurprisingly, by saving his ass.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so in love with every idea for mcgenji reunions! This one is post-recall whereas my other reunion fic is during the Blackwatch/Overwatch days.

His day is going badly. The targets are falling easily, sure - they always do. They don’t call him Deadeye for nothing. The problem is that there are too many of them, five or six when he’d expected two or three and dammit, he’s not as young as he used to be. Not as slight of body and damn sure heavier of heart. A weary soul, bone-tired. When he’d taken the mark, he’d been told it was an attempted Deadlock resurgence - a couple of no-good scoundrels who’d missed the big Overwatch sting op they’d caught _him_ in over a lifetime ago.  They were looking to bring back the good old days, tearing shit up from Texas to Arizona and somehow avoiding the long arm of the law for decades. Stubborn or stupid, he’s not sure which.

Bad memories come back in waves of toxic nausea as he completes his task, dispensing justice the only damn way he knows how. Dirty work. A goddamn, no-good thankless job and if were up to him, he’d crawl back into the series of familiar hidey-holes he’s amassed over his years underground and pretend the whole thing doesn’t exist. That the skull brand on his back hasn’t burned since the minute he set foot in Santa Fe and that he actually _needs_ this bounty so he could say he’s killing for a reason. Really, it’s selfish: for his pride, for his sense of justice, for _something_...an all-consuming need to lay some ghosts down dead in their graves, maybe. The last place he wants to be is here: here, with hot sand and spiny cacti as far as the eye can see; here, where he remembers explosions and gunshots and a dead man who’d looked at him and seen _promise_.

When the last man’s standing and he’s down to his last bullet in the chamber, he falters. There is the sound of a gunshot, sharp as a thunderclap, an echo in the gorge - so loud he swears he can feel the sand vibrate with it. In a few short seconds, he prepares himself for the end: for the blistering, burning pain of a bullet hitting flesh that may or may not kill him and he thinks _at this point, who gives a shit_? There is a soft _clink_ that sounds vaguely familiar from somewhere deep in the recesses of his troubled mind, something that calls forth a memory but most importantly he feels no bullet, no blossoming of pain. When he turns, there is a shadow at the corner of his vision, a bright glint of sunlight and a blur of muted color before it’s gone. He turns to find his mark again, aims, fires - dead center, right between the eyes. The de facto leader, if he recognizes the face right – tanned dark from the sun and deeply wrinkled, with that same scar over his eye. Like old leather, a hateful goddamn face he’d recognize anywhere.

When it’s all said and done and the dust clears, they’re all dead. He pulls out his phone and takes pictures – six clicks in all, a goddamn job well done - making sure to step over and between the fallen bodies to get a good look at the faces, making sure they match the wanted posters. It’s hard, messy work; the stench of blood overpowering in the midday heat. It would turn his stomach if he weren’t so used to it, would disgust him if he didn’t know getting rid of them was the right damn thing to do. He feels ragged and worn by the end of it, his left arm itching where prosthetic meets flesh, right hand aching even though the grip on his gun is more comfort than trouble. His throat is dry and his eyes are burning, but justice has been dispensed.

Turning, he catches sight of a diner on the corner that he’s been to before. If he remembers correctly, they’ve got the best huevos rancheros in the world _and_ they don’t ask questions for the right amount of money. Which, if his fake-name bank account is informing him correctly as the pictures finish uploading, he’s got plenty.

As he’s walking towards the diner, the sun glints off a piece of gleaming metal and an omnic floats down seemingly out of nowhere, humming softly as he moves to stand (well, hover...something) right in front of him. McCree says “Howdy, stranger,” because after years of fighting he figures it’s easier to start off polite than to draw his pistol all over again. The omnic seems peaceful enough; it seems pretty human-like and not at all threatening and it’s got a collection of metal balls suspended around its neck like planets orbiting a sun. Slowly, without saying anything, the omnic lets one of the balls fall into his outstretched hand and before he can think better of, he accepts it as it’s offered. It glows golden, peaceful; warm in his palm, softly rotating on its axis as he cradles it and instantly, he feels better. Like weeks of sleeping on the cold, hard ground haven’t taken their toll, like he doesn’t have aches and pains and scrapes and bruises, like his heart doesn’t hurt so damn bad and maybe he’ll be able to fall asleep without a bottle of whiskey tonight.

“Walk in harmony, Jesse,” the omnic says, its voice calmly level. McCree looks from the metal in his hand to the sun glinting off the gleaming silver of the stranger and wonders how in the hell it knows his name. His real name, not McCree. Reflexively, he brings his fingers to the handle of his gun and lets them curl around it - just a precaution as he pulls it out, letting the barrel rest against his belt buckle to show it he means business. Immediately he’s convinced the whole thing was a set-up and he’s decided he’s not in the mood to die today. Not until he’s damn good and ready, not until it’s on _his_ terms.

“Are you getting slow in your old age, or stupid?” a voice asks from behind him and McCree’s heart jumps up somewhere into the region of his throat. _He knows that voice_. The inflection, the metallic timbre, the English thick with a Japanese accent.  _Well_ , he thinks, _that explains the sound earlier_. Genji’s claim to fame had been bouncing bullets off of that fancy sword of his ever since they’d first met.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, holstering his pistol as he turns around, smile splitting across his face so fast it makes the muscles ache. “If it ain’t little Genji Shimada.”

Genji looks the same as McCree remembers, an image that’s been burned onto his brain. He remembers him silhouetted against the setting sun on top of the roof at Gibraltar, remembers him under the bright lights of Hanamura when they’d finished his mission to take down the family that had destroyed him, remembers how Genji had looked under him tangled in messy sheets of countless hotel rooms, of their rooms back at base, a blanket under the stars. He remembers the way Genji had felt and sounded and tasted, the way he’d showed him without even trying that all the things in the stories about butterflies in your stomach were true. When he’d held hands with Genji he’d felt like he was flying and hearing his voice now, he still does.

“The same. You never answered me, though.” Genji teases. “Slow or stupid?”

McCree grins and turns toward the omnic, handing it the ball and giving it a nod of thanks, _much obliged_. “Slow, I reckon. Y’always teased me about that, if I remember correctly.”

Hesitantly, he walks towards him. There are about ten steps between them, feet that seem like miles. He hasn’t seen Genji in years, not since he’d left Gibraltar in the early hours of the morning and never looked back. His last transmission – _I won’t do this anymore_ – before he’d turned his comm off and thrown it away, dug the UN-sanctioned tracker beacon out of his shoulder and vanished. Sentiments and actions Jesse had echoed years later for different reasons. Genji seems to startle, pulling back and Jesse stops dead in his tracks - ever since his brother’s betrayal Genji’s been a little skittish at first, a little touch-shy. He’s damn well gonna respect that, especially after so many years.

“Genji,” the omnic says quietly as they face off like a high-noon duel, as the seconds drag on like hours and Jesse starts to wonder if the heat is making him hallucinate. “Remember that you miss out on any opportunities you do not take advantage of.”

Genji nods, and before McCree can react to whatever secret conversation is being shared between them Genji is running and _jumping_ into his arms, all five and a half feet of cyborg ninja and _god_ , does it feel good. Like a puzzle piece has slotted into place, like Mccree’s been given back a missing half of his heart and all he can think is _thank god nothing has changed with this, when everything else has._

“Darlin’, I’ve been missin’ the feelin’ of you in my arms somethin’ fierce!” McCree cries, curling his arms tight around him. Genji’s legs find a familiar position around his hips easily, arms slung casually around his neck and McCree kisses his visor, sun-warm against his chapped lips. Then, softly, he asks “Can I?” before Genji’s nod allows his fingers to move to the back of his head. There are the latches for his visor, he remembers; there is where he can press just _so_ for the exhale of air that tells him the visor’s detached, so he can see the face of the man he’s loved for what feels like lifetimes.

Genji’s hands finds McCree’s cheeks and slide up to cradle his head, thumbs catching the tears that are falling from his eyes. He says his name, says “ _Jesse_ ,” like it’s a secret he’s been keeping, exhaling it in a breath as he presses his scarred forehead to McCree’s sweaty one.

“You’re even prettier than when I saw you last,” Jesse tells him, and he means it. He’s charming, sure, but he’s not the type to lie and he’s especially not the type to lie to Genji. He _is_ prettier. Something about him seems lighter, more like the feathers of the sparrows he loves so much and less like the lead weight he once described his heart as. His eyes are like rich honey, thick and warm or maybe like amber, fossils Jesse would have loved to collect as a kid. Treasures. “How in the hell is that even legal? Who told ya it was fair to get even more beautiful?”

Genji says nothing because he _can’t_ , because his lips are against McCree’s and the kiss is earth-shattering. McCree thinks it could unravel the fabric of time itself, undo the careful knitting of the cosmos and wrap them up in it, remake it in their image because all there is in that moment is each other. Genji’s lips are smooth against his own and McCree’s hands move of their own accord, muscle memory allowing him to find the spaces between armor to hold Genji just so, to cradle him how he likes. After what feels like an eternity, the omnic laughs, interrupting their impromptu reunion and Genji clears his throat like a chastised child and lets himself drop down from around McCree’s waist, crossing the distance to the omnic and touching its shoulder.

Turning to McCree, he bows his head briefly and smiles. “This is Zenyatta. He is a monk, formerly of the Shambali Monastery,” Genji introduces, and McCree returns the omnic’s nod with an easy _howdy_. “He is my mentor. I...well, it’s safe to say that I would not be where I am today if it weren’t for him.”

The omnic has no change in expression, only a slight flicker of the lights on his faceplate but McCree can _hear_ the smile. “Ah, but you would also not be where you were today without this man, am I right, my student?”

“ _Zenyatta!_ ” Genji hisses and McCree grins. He receives a punch in response, a subtle flick of Genji’s wrist that draws three shuriken out of their sheath and lets the sunlight catch them - wicked dangerous, deadly sharp. Addressing McCree, he says “I could still kill you even if I’ve missed you terribly. Don’t let that compliment go to your head, cowboy.”

“I think I can afford to let it go to my head, baby,” McCree says. “You’ve already gone to my heart.”


End file.
